


Library Tales

by LetThereBeDestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean In Love, Destiel Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Library AU, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Rain, Romance, Teacher Castiel, high school teacher cas, shameless sexuality confusion (...?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 23:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5351948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetThereBeDestiel/pseuds/LetThereBeDestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing his memory in a car crash, Dean is lost. He is a burden to his brother, a failure at work and he has no idea how to get back to himself. His meeting in the library with Castiel, who he's been meeting there for the past year, gives him hope that maybe he can learn to love his old life again. Slowly, he falls in love with Cas, without knowing he already had once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Library Tales

**Author's Note:**

> This is the very least I could give my amazing friend [Kristine](https://www.instagram.com/textposts_and_shit/) for her birthday (which was a month ago... sorry, boo). I hope you like it. ┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴ I really tried my best .3.  
> Also, thanks for my bae [Lindsey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdlexia) who proofread this story for me.

* * *

 

 

**_"Every  now and then I get a little bit terrified,_  
**

**_and then I see the look in your eyes."_ **

_\- Bonnie Tyler, Total Eclipse of the Heart_

 

* * *

“So, you excited?” asked Sam as he slowed the car to a halt in front of a Stop sign, before accelerating again and taking a turn at the small crossroad. It was a rainy afternoon in late November, and the roads were empty like a drained bubble bath, wet and unused.

“Yeah,” Dean answered heedlessly, catching the line of conversation Sam was opening but not playing along with it.

“The guy sounds great.”

Sam was thinking about _Castiel,_ while Dean’s mind was occupied with another matter: his lost memories.

Of course, that wasn’t an out of the ordinary subject to think about in the past couple of weeks, but today he was onto something.

His mind was gone. This was his twenty-eighth year, and the accident was the first time he’d realized that your memories are all you’ve got; without them, you are practically a helpless nothing. Much like what he currently was.

Although Sam has been teaching him more and more about himself, his family and his history, Dean has only now realized that his brother was painting him a perfect picture of his past. No bad memories, no fears, no accidents or fights or telling what exactly happened to their parents. Just one flawless tale after another about their happy childhood with John and Mary, Dean’s flourishing mechanic shop and his days in the library with Cas.  But all of these wouldn’t be worth a damn thing if Dean didn’t know the dark side of the bargain, would they? The entirety of a man’s wisdom lay in his mistakes.

All he knew was that their parents had died in a car accident a few years ago with Sam’s fiancé, Jess. Of course, if Sam weren’t the blabbermouth he was, Dean wouldn’t even know that – but that one slipped out.

Dean and Sam had their talks every night after dinner, hours of sitting with piling cups of coffee and discussing all that you could possibly want to know about the average mid-twenties business man. Sam _did_ mention the accident once, but he was cautious about his information for Dean, careful not to say anything upsetting. It was like any time they’d reached a sensitive matter, Sam’s lips would lock and he’d change the subject.

Dean glanced at his brother from the shotgun seat, examining briefly the only face familiar to him entirely. It wasn’t exceptional for Sam to ramble on about Dean being a good brother to him, and Dean suspected Sam might’ve been trying to return the favor now by sparing him certain pieces of information.

Of course, he’d have no idea he had to be a tougher man than his brother wanted him to be if not the scars stretched along different parts of his body, or the dreadful fear of fires that seemed to cling onto him like a childhood memory.

 _Very well,_ he thought to himself, turning to look outside the window. _If Sam won't tell me what needs to be told – I’ve got another source of information just waiting for me to arrive._

His fingers tapped against the car door for a moment, until he finally spoke.

“So how is this Cas dude?”

Sam glanced at him from behind the steering wheel. “Well, I told you most of what there is to know. You’ve been seeing him only inside the library, every Thursday afternoon, for maybe a year. He’s a quirky guy, y’know.” Sam shrugged.

“Quirky, how?” Dean lifted an eyebrow.

“Well – I’ve never actually seen him, but from your stories, he sounded kinda… different. He has this trench coat he always wears and a weird way of speech. You said he has something about him that keeps you interested, makes you wanna know him more.” He shrugged again. Dean barely noticed him, only listening to the words in the small bubble of his mind, watching the soaked tree trunks and the slippery roads and trying to paint a picture in his mind.

“I don’t know, man. You seemed totally in love with the guy. And I don’t mean- I don’t mean romantically – at least, not that I know of-“ Sam stammered, struggling for the right words for a moment. “I mean, intellectually. He’d listen to you chatterbox all day, as if he had nothing better to do. You two were a real match.” Sam snorted as the wheels turned into a small parking lot with a shriek. “What did you say he’d called it? _A more profound bond._ ”

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed. Sam described his relationship with this guy as a rather intimate one, although they’d never left the library together. Could it be they were in love?

He tried to delve into his mind, fish for some help of his newborn memories. Was he gay? He wasn’t sure. The tags and titles of this world still baffled him, like a huge net containing hundreds of tiny notes that society was endlessly pushing him to pick one of and make it his. He’s seen men and women his age and both sexes looked good to him, some maybe too good – but he felt like he shouldn’t tag himself like a jar on someone’s kitchen shelf.

“’Aight, there you go,” Sam announced as he pulled the hand brake. “You want me to walk you in?”

“I’ll get by,” Dean decided after a second of hesitation. He watched the double door at the side of the building, only a few feet away from the end of the parking lot.

“First staircase on the left, then the table at the end of the shelves, right?”

“Yeah. You sure?” Sam asked, and he nodded.

The air he stepped into was cold and biting, and Dean tightened his leather jacket around himself. The drops that succeeded to crash into his hair during the seconds he was out were surprisingly many, and he burst into the small reception room of the community center with gratitude for the warm puff of air against his face.

He looked around; there was a staircase to his left and one to his right, and between them a reception counter with a woman reading a book behind it. Trying to avoid any human contact he could spare himself, he silently turned to the left and padded down the stairs.

Downstairs, the place was a bright, big room, with tables at its front and shelves at its back. Reluctantly, Dean turned toward the shelves and walked past them, examining the variety of genres, until he reached the last one. The little tag on the shelf read _Gay Fiction, A-Z._ Behind it, a long table was placed in the center of the dense space with plastic-and-steel chairs around it. By the end that was closer to Dean, a short haired man wearing a beige coat was sitting with his elbows leaning on the table. His fingers were tapping an unsteady rhythm on the table, and after a restless moment – as if he were doing it every few seconds, nervous – his neck turned and he looked back, and Dean finally saw his face.

Castiel’s features were unique enough to keep you interested while looking at him, but not so much to the extent of taking another look as you pass by him on the street. His eyes were a dull blue from that distance, his hair a mess above tan, young skin. When his eyes met Dean’s his lips parted with surprise, as if he weren’t ready for Dean to be there. Dean didn’t know what to do as Castiel’s eyes roamed over him, but in a fraction of a moment the man was on his feet, advancing swiftly in Dean’s direction.

“Dean,” he sighed as his arms rose toward Dean’s shoulders, as if he wanted to hug him, but his motion stopped midway and he settled for a loose grip on Dean’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

Dean looked at him, trying not to gape. From this short of a distance, the man’s eyes were anxious, his eyebrows furrowed with concern above dark eyelashes.

“Um – yeah,” Dean answered quietly, a small embarrassed huff escaping his lips like a dot closing the sentence.

The man looked into Dean’s eyes, and some kindle in his own eyes died.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, dropping his hand and taking a step back. “You don’t remember me. Of course.”

“I didn’t remember my own parents at first,” Dean let out a short, gloomy chuckle. “Don’t feel bad about yourself.”

“Of course,” Castiel rushed to say, not wanting to seem disrespectful. “Of course I don’t.”

Dean looked up, examining Castiel’s hesitant features; the guy seemed lost. Dean tried for a smile and stepped forward, passing by Castiel and walking toward the table. He sat down by it, wondering what will be the distance of the chair that Castiel will pick from his.

“So,” he said and cleared his throat, not sure what to say.  Castiel walked toward him reluctantly. He sat down in the seat next to Dean’s, shoving the chair slightly away from Dean’s to keep a certain distance.

“I don’t know where to start,” he admitted, his eyes on the table. “Your brother said I might be helpful with information about your past year. Casual things you didn’t want to bore him with, he said.”

A smile hovered over Dean’s lips as he put Castiel’s last sentence in the small list of characterizations he made for himself – about himself – in an attempt to comprehend better the man he’d used to be.

“I dunno,” he pursed his lips. “I’ve heard so much about me lately, I was hoping you could tell me something a bit different.” His mind was at the events Sam has tried to keep away from him, but when he looked into Castiel’s eyes he couldn’t bring himself to use him like that – at least not on their first meeting. Maybe next week.

“Like what?” Castiel asked. Dean felt his fingers move to pull at the ends of his sleeves, embarrassed.

“I dunno, maybe… the first time we met?”

Castiel glanced at him, the glint in his eyes lightening again.

“Alright, then. Would you like the facts?”

Dean’s forehead creased. “What else would I want?”

Castiel’s shoulders pulled up in a way of defense. “There’s always more to a story than facts.”

Dean clearly didn’t understand the man that was sitting beside him anymore, because the guarded look that crawled back into Castiel’s features befuddled him just as much as anything else these days. Did Castiel expect him to be deeper, smarter? Was the man Castiel had used to know better than Dean himself now? He could easily understand why Cas wouldn’t want to see him anymore, would lose interest. Something in his chest withered – he was a burden to his brother, a failure in his business, and now he was a disappointment to his friend. The new him was utterly useless.

The issue that upset him didn’t seem to bother Castiel for much longer, though, and he spoke.

“I am a high school teacher in the school right next to the community center,” he gestured his hand upwards and to his right, pointing offhandedly at the general direction of the exit. “They’re exhausting. I can use a break sometime, and I come here quite a lot. You showed up one day a few months ago – actually, I think it was more…”

“Sam said a year,” Dean mentioned.

“Ah, of course,” Cas’ eyes brightened. “September eighteenth.”

“September eighteenth?” Dean pondered, then his eyes rose. “You remembered?”

“You did,” Castiel explained. “We’ve talked about it a couple of months ago…” his voice trailed off, rising again with a new matter. “You needed to renew your library card.”

“Okay,” Dean said after a short silence. Castiel’s eyes were unfocused, his mind lost in his own thoughts.

“September eighteenth two thousand and eight I come into the library,” he encouraged, and Castiel continued cautiously.

“You approached the librarian and said, ‘hey there, you got a book with Shakespeare’s sonnets?’” He lowered his voice, trying to match to Dean’s accent, and they both laughed shortly.

“That’s what I said?”

“This is what comes to mind,” Castiel answered. “And it sounds like you.” His lips held a continuous attempt to remain serious, but his eyes were still smiling and Dean, and Dean couldn’t help but smile back.

“So the librarian showed you the section, and I was looking for something to read on the opposite section. Then, when you found the book, you turned to me and said, ‘did you know that he wrote most of his sonnets for a guy?’ I said no, I didn’t. You said that one hundred and eight out of one hundred fifty-four of them were dedicated to a young man.”

“Too bad no one’s ever heard about that, huh?” Dean cut him off with a mutter, making space in the quiet for Castiel to fill after that sentence. Cas grinned lightly, the pull of his lips uncovering a row of neatly white, small teeth. He continued talking, but Dean didn’t pay attention to what he said. He was focused on that smile - that smile which seemed rather natural, as if they’d known each other for years…

Castiel’s voice was low, sunken in his story. It was deep – not the dreamy, sexy voice that paralyzes you and makes you unable to concentrate, but also not too boring so you were forced to listen only to the story it tells. Dean listened to it, studied its nature, poking at the depth of it that he hasn’t learned to recognize yet.

As he listened to Castiel, he wondered what trouble he’d gotten himself into. Somehow along the afternoon their chairs turned toward one another, their loosely put arms on the table heedlessly close to one another.

Sam did describe their relationship as rather tight, Dean recalled, but although Castiel was swiftly learning to become comfortable around him, it seemed less and less likely that he’d bring up any past romantic activity between them.

 _That’s a shame,_ Dean thought to himself gloomily. He didn’t know Castiel enough to be disappointed by his own conclusion, but Cas seemed like someone you’re very lucky to find by chance between the shelves of a library.

Dean started to realize why his brother got this good of an impression from him about Cas. Just listening to his voice, you could tell you’ve stumbled upon a guy not just like anyone else. The last thing you’d do would be let go of this person.

 

* * *

 

The office room was big and spacious. The brown of the floor wasn’t real wood, and the photos on the walls described a too-perfect image of two brothers managing a business together.

Dean’s chair was carefully placed behind a table with papers full of names and numbers he once was able to recognize.

It was the voice of his brother that yanked him out of the depths of his mind and into the present.

“Hey, Garth! Good to see you again.” Sam’s voice was muffled and mixed with the noises of engines and other men working. Dean couldn’t connect a face to the name or to the faint voice that answered his brother, and in a poor attempt to clear his mind, he clung onto Sam’s words.

“Yeah, he’s in his office. Had a car accident a few weeks back, hit his head pretty good.” His voice disappeared for a few moments.

“Was on his way to a business trip outta town,” Sam’s voice was finally back. “Yeah, yeah. Doctor says it might be post trauma. I dunno…”

The speaking about his injuries made something in Dean’s chest uneasy and his stomach turned. Sam’s words rang a familiar note in his mind, as if he’s heard them before, or said them…

It was a faint memory he had to coax into his consciousness, and at last the shelves of the library looked familiar again, and he could recall a man standing up beside him.

_He was turning to go, too-large trench coat hanging awkwardly on his shoulders, its ends hovering around his legs in that certain way they did whenever he rose to his feet._

_Dean stood one step behind him, hesitant._

_“See you next week?” Cas asked, and Dean spoke up._

_“Actually,” he opened, and Cas turned around at his reluctant tone. “I’m going on a business trip outta town in a few days.”_

_“For how long?” Cas asked, probably unaware of the troubled way his eyebrows dropped._

_“A coupla weeks,” Dean shrugged as if it weren’t as big of a deal, but his mind was spinning ruthlessly around the downwards curve of Cas’ lips, the slight way in which his shoulders fell._

_“That’s too bad,” Cas blurted gloomily. “I’ll see you when you get back, then. Good luck.” Then, as if it were a casual exchange between the two of them, his arms opened to wrap loosely around Dean’s shoulders for a brief moment._

_“See you,” Dean managed to choke out before Cas turned and walked away._

Dean pondered at the memory for a few long moments, trying to comprehend the nature of his and Cas’ relationship out of it. He wondered how hard it was for Cas to greet as a stranger a man who he’d hugged goodbye the last time he’d seen.

He hadn’t long to wonder about Castiel before a new, female voice sounded outside his door, talking to his brother before she turned for his room.

“Hey, Dean,” she greeted cheerfully after knocking on his open door lightly. Dean looked up from the mess of endless papers that covered his desk, not reacting to the doctor’s appearance in any visible way, and she took it as an invitation to come in.

“Sorry to bother you at work,” she apologized. “I only had time to drop by in the morning.”

Dean shrugged indifferently. “I don’t do here much good anyway.”

“Your brother told me differently,” she protested and sat down on one of the padded seats in front of the desk, placing her shoulder bag on the other.

She was in her late twenties and had flowing red hair and bright eyes, the sort of girl you would consider hot if she weren’t walking around with baggy pants and dorky T-shirts.

“So, how are you?” Doctor Bradbury asked as she settled in her chair.

“Just fine, thank you,” Dean answered and picked up a pen, rolling its cap distractedly between his fingers.

“Dean, I’m supervising your recovery,” she explained wearily. “I’m going to need more than ‘just fine’.” He’s only met with Doctor Bradbury twice since leaving the hospital after the accident, but he wasn’t much of a collaborator with her meetings. They always made him feel like his progress was too slow.

“Better,” he tried again, but she sent him an unsatisfied look.

“I met with a friend yesterday. Sam said we were pretty close.”

“Great!” The doctor’s eyes lit, and Dean knew she was glad to see him going out and meeting people for the first time since what happened. “How was it?”

“Weird,” Dean said, reluctant. “He knew a lot about me, but…”

“You couldn’t recall him,” she completed the sentence. “You can’t feel guilty about this, Dean. Your brain needs some time to recover, but it will.”

Dean ignored her, set inside his own bubble of thoughts. “He looked sad.”

She leaned forward, placing her forearms on the table.

“Dean, these things happen. It may be new to you, but I see it all the time. People get through this."

“How?” he asked wistfully.

“They have to learn to fall in love again,” she explained, her stare at him deliberate. “With the people in their life, with the things they like. Even with their home. All the things they used to love, they have to get to know again.”

“You’re saying it like it’s that easy,” he said tiredly. “I don’t even know _what_ I loved.”

“You’re still who you are,” she sent a hand to rest on his arm comfortingly, her eyes kind. “You’ll find yourself again. You didn’t tell me how it went with your friend, though. Will you see him again?”

“Next Thursday,” Dean said without thinking. “He helped, I think. Some of what he said sounded familiar.” He paused for a moment, wondering about Cas.

“He’s a good storyteller. I like him,” he said eventually.

Doctor Bradbury questioned him about his retrieved memories since their last meeting, leaving the subject of Cas aside, but as she went on Dean’s mind still hovered around their conversation in the library.

Something about him wanted to see Cas again. Compared to his helpless days at work and his all so regular evenings with his brother, his time with Cas was different. It wasn’t as exciting as Sam taking him out to see the town, nor was it confusing as his workdays. His time with Cas, the dim light of the library wrapping them in a soft beam, Cas’ flowing voice which made Dean want to listen to his stories for hours… There was something so simple about this scene, so quiet, like he was finally allowed to take a break – a break he won’t have for another long week now.

The doctor promised his recovery was progressing well, although Dean still felt like an infant.

“I’ll be back next week,” she said and left to the sound of his faint “thank you.”

Dean was left alone in the spacious room, counting the days.

 

* * *

 

“Have I ever told you about my childhood?” Dean asked, leaning one elbow on the table beside him. Castiel was sitting in front of him, inches away. He looked a bit better today, a smile jumping to his face as soon as he saw Dean walking down the stairs.

“We’ve talked about many things,” he replied now. “Could you be more specific?”

“Well…” Dean hesitated. “Sam told me what happened to our parents, but I think he lied. The picture he was painting is too pretty,” he explained.

“Dean, look…” Cas opened carefully. “What happened to you is terrible, but it does have a single advantage – you have a chance to forget your past. And I think you should take it.”

“So you won’t tell me,” Dean clarified in a half-asking tone.

“I will, if you wish me to,” Cas said slowly. “It’s up to you; I just think you should consider letting it go.”

Dean looked into his eyes, and he could tell Cas was being genuine.

“Well, I could…” Cas’ head rose, expecting a follow to Dean’s start.

“What?”

“I guess I could forget about my past and let other people deal with the consequences.” His shoulders pulled up as he tried to show Cas his side of the bargain.

“I see your answer is no.” Cas’ hands entwined in his lap and the ends of his lips pulled down.

“Cas, buddy, look,” Dean cleared his throat, trying to recall when did he lean forward in Cas’ direction.

“I am trying to find again the man I was, not create a new one. Now, there’s just one thing I need to know to make my decision. Would who I was let go of his past, or would he want to know the truth?”

Cas’ head ducked in defeat. “He’d want the truth,” he admitted.

“So I’m asking you to tell me,” Dean said, and Cas gave in.

“Alright, then. Will you tell me what was it your brother told you that you think was a lie?”

“I dunno,” Dean’s shoulders hunched defensively. “He said our parents and his fiancé died in a car crash a coupla years back, and other than that, all his talking ‘bout our childhood sounded too good. Like he’s trying to protect me from the bad memories, y’know?”

Castiel nodded thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t tell me much about your childhood,” he opened. “But what you did say, I know was genuine. If you didn’t want me to know something, you didn’t say it. I never asked,” he answered the question in Dean’s eyes.

“You told me your parents died when you were a child. Jessica did engage in a car accident not long ago, maybe a few months before we met.” Unconsciously, he leaned closer to Dean, sending a glance up when he noticed his own motion.

“After your parents died, your uncle adopted you. Bobby. He had a mechanic shop, the one you and your brother manage now.”

“Lemme guess,” Dean interrupted, his tone dully sarcastic. “He died too, didn’t he? What was it, another car crash?”

Cas shrugged. “You never said what happened to him. All I know is he was like a father to you. You’d talk on and on about him, even showed me a picture once.” A smile flashed on Cas’ face like a fish bouncing above the surface of a lake for a brief second.

“All these deaths, though…” Dean’s eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t you think it’s a bit odd?”

“To be honest…” Cas paused hesitantly, unsure. His eyes caught to movement of Dean’s back straightening with interest, and the slight split of Dean’s lips encouraged him to continue.

“Honestly, I’ve always thought there was something strange about you. But on the other hand – isn’t there something odd about us all? I live with siblings who treat my poor brother as if he were the devil.” Cas’ shoulders rose again. “Every family has its own oddity.”

“And you’ve never asked,” Dean affirmed.

“You didn’t seem very thrilled to talk about it, so I let it go.”

“Alright, then.” Dean pondered quietly for a moment, his fingers rising subconsciously to touch the side of his face. When his eyes rose to meet Cas’, they held somewhat of a mischievous spark.

“You think Sam knows what was going on?”

Cas’ eyes narrowed with comprehension. “He may know.”

With those words, a crooked smile sneaked onto Dean’s lips.

“You wanna find out?”

“I shouldn’t,” Cas’ eyebrows furrowed above the slits of his eyes, giving him the look of a baffled Zeus. “But I do.”

The car ride back home took longer than usual. It was the second time Dean has driven since the accident, the first time being a round with Sam in their big parking lot full of still cars last night. He enjoyed driving, accelerating until the engine hummed and then shifting the gears, feeling the wind batter at his face and then shove against it with a nipping freeze that threw back his hair and probably his brain, too. He was still rusty, though, so meanwhile, thirty-five miles an hour seemed to have to suffice.

“So,” Sam asked after fifteen minutes of rather tense quiet in which Dean was doing his best to stay in his lane and stop by the Stop signs. _As if I’d do that before,_ he snorted to himself, but slowly kept making his safe way into the parking lot. He didn’t want to mess up in front of his brother.

“How was it?” Sam looked at him expectantly, as if he’s been waiting for Dean to bring his meeting with Cas up during the whole ride. Or maybe he did, and Dean was too busy trying to make a good impression on him that he didn’t even notice.

“Good,” Dean answered carefully. “Good.”

He started to regret his conversation with Sam a couple of nights ago – telling him how much he wanted to see Cas again, shrugging when Sam asked if there was something more to it than the need for a friendly discussion. His brother wouldn’t stop nagging him about Cas ever since, as if his only joy in life was seeing Dean talk about him and trying to push him to tell Cas how he felt.

“You two are getting along,” Sam pointed out, gazing innocently out the windshield.

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean answered in the same casual tone and pulled the hand brake. They walked into the house quietly, the cold sticking to their clothes like plastic wrap.

Dinner was a routine ceremony, placing a big pan on the stove and cutting a series of vegetables, and eventually Dean placed on the table a big bowl of salad and a wide plate of fries. Sam slid to the seat before his bowl of fresh veggies while Dean dropped impatiently on his chair in front of the sliced potatoes.

Sam didn’t open a conversation as they ate, and Dean’s mind was occupied with trying to bring up the subject he wasn’t yet sure about what was the content of.

“Listen, Cas told me…” he started eventually, halting abruptly when he thought of Cas. If he wasn’t supposed to find out about whatever unclear details Cas informed him with, he didn’t want to bring this all on Cas.

“He, um, said something that made me recall some stuff.” He looked at Sam cautiously over the table, but his brother didn’t seem suspicious in any way.

“Bobby Singer,” he said, his lips pursing at once like castle gates shutting close to prevent thieves from following one who managed to escape.

With his words came to mind the picture of a man not young, a baseball cap resting on his head and a beard covering the sides of his face. Dean didn’t remember Castiel telling him Bobby’s surname, yet it flowed out of his mouth as naturally as a bird flying out a window.

Sam’s eyes grew alarmed, the ends of his lips curving down.

“I get what’s going on,” he said and Dean faltered, not sure what he’s talking about.

“You found out I lied.” Sam’s head ducked, his stare holding some sort of guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Dean examined his brother’s face for a moment, his eyes hovering over the notes of remorse in Sam’s features.

“I’m not mad,” he noted, baffled. He knew Sam did the wrong thing, but he was just trying to help. Dean wondered if being mad in this situation was a human norm he hasn’t yet been updated upon.

“I just wanna know the truth.”

Sam’s eyes rose slowly, wide and unsure like a misbehaved puppy’s.

“Dad’s brother. He raised us,” Sam cleared his throat, continuing fluently. “An old alcoholic crackpot.  He was like a father to us.”

Dean listened restlessly, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place slowly and creating the features of his uncle. He felt a sudden urge to know more about that man who raised him and his brother like his own.

“But, um,” Dean hesitated. “Didn’t he use to disappear sometimes? Go places he wouldn’t tell us about?” his lips sealed into a wary line again. He couldn’t doubtlessly tell whether his words were a guess or a memory, but if they were a guess – they were a good one.

“Yeah,” Sam’s eyebrows furrowed, presumably surprised to find Dean remember that detail.

“He was a strange man,” Sam continued. “He used to have his secret books we weren’t allowed to look at. He spent more time with his nose stuck inside those books than he did at the shop. Every now and then, he’d get a secret phone call which he’d call someone right afterwards – an old friend, he said. Rufus. We used to pretend he was in the FBI.” Sam let out a huffed out laugh.

“Then, around the time when you were eight, he stopped calling Rufus and started going out himself, ordering you to take care of me while he’s gone. Long hours each time, sometimes even a whole night. He’d come back and pretend he never left the house.” Sam’s shoulders rose and dropped back down.

“And we never found out what he was doing?” Dean asked quietly, and Sam’s eyes shot up with a halfhearted smile.

“I didn’t.”

Dean froze, so caught up in the story that the twist he couldn’t recall took him aback.

“I did?” he asked mutedly.  

“It was your thirteenth birthday when Bobby took you aside and told you something which I never found out. Then, instead of him, you started disappearing.” Sam paused for a moment, contemplative.

“At first it wasn’t as intense as Bobby’s times, but over the years your times away lasted longer and longer – sometimes a night, sometimes a weekend. One Christmas – a whole week, and Bobby had to go looking for you and leave me with Ellen and Jo.” Sam took another pause, his eyes on his side of the table.

“You’d never answer when I asked where you got those wounds from.”

Dean gulped, his tight throat slow with shock. He’s seen the scars Sam was talking about, wondered about them more than once. How did he get those bite marks, what could cause this long of a cut except a machete… The scars already bothered him, but there was something awfully disturbing about Sam’s story.

“Anyway,” Sam’s words broke the tense silence. “Before I was old enough to be told about your business, you got a scholarship and went to college. Bobby disappeared, you wouldn’t tell me anything, just kept pushing me to study until I got my scholarship too, and that was it.”

“So you never found out what I was doing all the time?”

Sam shook his head. “No matter how much I tried to. Every time I’d ask you about it, you’d say, ‘better if you didn’t know, Sammy.’ Your lips were sealed.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully at the answer he was excepting to receive. He considered it for a long moment, his fingertips playing with the ends of his cutlery.

“Do you still wanna find out?” he asked after a while. He could add a man to his truth-seeking quest with Cas, he thought. Something in his stomach bubbled, itching to learn the big secret that he himself went through so much trouble to keep from everyone. It sure wasn’t good – old scars, disappearances and death were all over the case – but that just made him curiouser.

“Dean, are you sure this is a good idea?” Sam asked, but Dean cut him off.

“You can skip the talk. I already got it from one person today.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment his chin bowed with a small nod.

“That guy really cares about you, don’t he?” he said as if to himself, ignoring the red that flourished on Dean’s face.

“Alright, then,” he said after a moment of deliberation. “I’m in.”

 

* * *

 

**_The Rogers and Barnes Community Center_ **

****

The faded metal letters weren’t that big from that distance. Dean watched the rain wash over them for a long moment, as if they were to invite him in at some point.

Forty feet lower was a familiar door which Dean’s eyes avoided instinctively when his stare dropped.

He had a lot to think about in the past few weeks, in which he eventually recalled the first couple of times he’d seen Cas right after his accident – how naïve and unexperienced in life he was, how he wanted to find out about the truth of his past – but that was almost six months ago, and they were three grown, working men who couldn’t afford the time or the attention it took to dig into the past. Life made them move on, forced them to focus on more important things, and that moment of excited anticipation for a new discovery was long gone.

Issues of love, though, were an utterly different matter.

The business was demanding altogether and required the usual amount of hard work, but the effort of it wasn’t the source of Dean’s restlessness; it was Cas who kept him up at nights. His mind was set in a certain way that would bring Cas up whenever it emptied, at random times that frequently took Dean by surprise.

There were other things, too – the dull pink his face turned whenever Cas was mentioned; that wholehearted smile which took over his features instinctively when Cas’ smile bubbled up in his mind. There wasn’t much for Dean to figure – he was in love with the guy, and he hated it. He hated it, because Cas didn’t seem to be interested in him at all, never made the slightest motion to allow Dean to imagine he ever wished them to be more than friends too.

He hated it, because Cas was always so deliberate around him, so restrained, and not once showed the will to leave the library with Dean. And it broke him, because he was sure – Comic-Con-tickets-sure, these-jeans-will-be-tighter-at-home-sure – that he was in love with Cas way long before he banged his head and forgot everything, and that meant that Cas has never had feelings for him, not even for the man he was before.

He knew it was only a matter of time until he wouldn’t be able to do this anymore, to see Cas every week and imprison his emotion in a dark oubliette inside his mind. And he knew what he was ought to do.

He opened the small mirror on the car sun visor and examined his face for a moment. He smoothed his hair, fixed the collar of his shirt and pulled the ends of his lips up.

He was ready.

The atmosphere of the library was as serene as always, nobodies walking within the shelves, Cas waiting in his seat.

Dean halted beside the last shelf, watching Cas’ back. He remembered the first time he saw Cas here after the accident and, if he stretched his mind and waited for a second, he could recall the first time he’s ever been to this library. Cas’ back under his coat, his mussed hair above firm shoulders, his hands resting limply on the table – these all looked so stunning to Dean, so much more beautiful than any of those first times he’d seen Cas.

At last, Dean’s cough cut through the silence and he slid into his chair as if it were his most natural position.

Cas’ head heaved up and up a grin colored his features, shaping his lips half a moon and crinkling the edges of his eyes.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up,” he explained, casually turning his chair toward Dean.

This wasn’t unusual – Cas was strange that way, affectionate in a way that most people, including Dean, weren’t.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbled, his longer-than-usual stay in the car occurring to him.

Watching Dean’s solemn face, Cas’ smile faded gradually until his face was a mask again. He opened his mouth, but Dean’s mind responded quickly.

“So, um, how’s work?” he asked. Cas’ forehead creased, but he answered the question.

“Tough, tougher – depends on the day. The kids are dickheads.” He let out a sigh. “I love them.”

Dean’s lips stretched involuntarily into a fond grin. He couldn’t understand how Cas handled thirty children at the highlight of their teenage years every day and make it out still loving them.

“I don’t get how you do that,” he said, clearing his throat when he heard the intimate note in his voice.

“I mean, it must be hard. I’ve been to high school-“ he paused, mentally hitting himself for stating the obvious.

“The teachers must suffer more handling them than treating kids in kindergarten.”

Cas let out a laugh. “If you’re looking for words to make it sound better, we use the term ‘challenging’.”

He looked at Dean, expecting a smile, but Dean avoided his stare. A sudden guilt attacked him, a fear that Cas will hate him for what he was about to do.

He ignored it, trying to focus on the conversation. No amount of doubt could change his mind now.

 “So you’re handling the pressure?” he asked, forgetting what were Cas’ last words.

“I guess,” Cas said, his features shaping back into seriousness. His mood sank.

“I’ve been teaching them for over two years now, so we have some sort of a connection. They say they like me, but I can’t tell if they’re being honest.”

“C’mon, give yourself some credit,” Dean encouraged. He’s seen Cas with his kids a couple of times, when they ran into him in the library or needed something and he’d tell them where to find him. They all looked close to finishing high school, and the sight of Cas talking to them, helping them, was remarkable. He clearly had in him the care and love to take care of those kids, and they knew it.

It was a heartache to recall the sensitivity Cas could reveal sometimes, which was almost exclusively limited to his talks with the kids and the exceptional times he opened up his emotions in front of Dean.

“So how are you?” Cas asked after a moment of silence, snapping Dean’s bubble of troubled thoughts.

“Just fine,” he answered halfheartedly. Cas’ expectant eyes dropped to the floor, and the two of them dived into silence again. It was longer than the last one, heavier, and neither of them bothered to break it. Dean pondered quietly, dispirited.

He tried to convince himself that he just wasn’t in the mood for talking, but he knew it was his distress that weighed down on his conscience and seized his words.

“I guess I should go,” he said eventually, shoving his chair backwards. Someone walked past them and Dean waited until she was out of sight, then rose from his chair.

“Is everything alright?” Cas asked hesitantly, standing up after Dean.

“Just feelin’ a bit unwell,” Dean shrugged offhandedly. Cas nodded understandingly.

“It’s good to see you recovering, though,” he said conversationally as they strolled slowly out of the room. Dean sent him a wondering glance, and he continued, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“When I first saw you after what happened, I couldn’t imagine how could you possibly fill back all that empty again. You didn’t even…” he trailed off, a stilted smile flashing on his face.

“What?” Dean encouraged quietly, looking at him as he walked.

“Well… I did something I shouldn’t have done.”

Dean waited quietly, expectantly, almost eager to hear Cas’ words. Anything that would give him a reason to freeze the minutes he was running out of, there and then.

“When I realized you didn’t recognize me, I… I couldn’t believe you lost it _all_.” Cas gulped, reluctant.

“So I told you that when we first met you came to me in the library, instead of saying _I_ was the one who told _you_ about that book. I thought it might make you recall what really happened.” He stared at the floor, abashed.

“I know,” Dean said gently, and Cas’ eyes shot to his face.

“I remembered,” he explained, climbing the last of the stairs beside Cas. “A coupla weeks later. But I didn’t know how to bring it up, so I just… let it go,” he admitted. Cas glanced at him and away a couple of times, speaking only after a long pause.

“Thank you.”

Dean only responded with an offhanded shrug, and held the door open for Cas to walk through.

“Anyway, I’m glad to see you found yourself again. You were so lost a few months ago.” 

Dean knew what he meant.

“Not all my memories are back, though,” he pointed out to Cas, who stood in his place before the old building. This was the point where their ways parted.

“But all of _you_ is back,” Cas argued. “You’ve gotten back the facts that were required to rebuild what was broken.”

Dean pondered at that, his lips pursing, eyes hovering unfocused over the grim city view.

It was cold. The rain stopped pouring, but the chill pierced through Dean’s clothes and coaxed him to wrap his arms around himself. Cas, though, had his warm coat to protect him from the cold. The wind swung him like a ship, held in place only by Dean’s presence.

“I haven’t thought of it like that,” Dean admitted. He stood in place, not wanting to leave, but hesitant to stay. When one of his hands fluttered upwards, it gave the other courage to lift and wrap around Cas’ shoulder, pulling him into a sheepish hug.

“See you sometime,” he mumbled, his jaw making the slightest friction with Cas’ ear as he talked. Cas’ hands settled loosely against Dean’s back, making his skin tingle through the layers of clothes.

“Won’t I see you next week?” He wondered at Dean’s statement.

“Not sure I can make it,” Dean answered after a brief pause and let go of him, stepping back. Cas nodded.

“I’ll be there anyway,” he said with a halfhearted smile, and turned away.

 

* * *

 

_It won’t be the same._

Dean sighed and rolled over in his bed, trying to find the right position. His mattress was new, and he couldn’t get used to it. He wanted the old one back.

He let out a muffled grumble and shifted again.

A few long minutes had passed before he realized he wasn’t going to fall asleep. He was lying on his back, and all he needed to do in order to see the moonlight pouring over his ceiling was open his eyes.

It was a calm, soothing sight, that soft white beam above his face. He couldn’t help but think about other sights that soothed his mind – the very same sights which now made his nerves tingle ominously.

Those were the first hours of the next Thursday, and Dean was as prepared as he was ever going to be.

So many times in the last hours he’s considered not going to the library at all, but the one picture that’d involuntarily pop in his mind was the image of Cas sitting alone, waiting for him. The look on his face when he realizes Dean isn’t going to show up, the things that would cross his mind. It would be better off if Dean had the chance to explain.

The new mattress bothered him, wouldn’t let him rest. It wasn’t until he was beginning to worry he’d see the first morning light that his mind faded into scattered thoughts, unformed hallucinations that could’ve been dreams.

The next day was nothing but ordinary. The routine of work was nerve racking, and by the time he got home Dean was too edgy to do anything but write a note, grab his coat and leave the house.

It was the first time in a while that he’s come to the library while Cas wasn’t there. Dean walked to their table back-straightened, peeking to his sides endlessly as if he were trying not to get caught stealing a chair. He huffed with relief when he stepped around the last shelves and found their small corner empty.

He took a couple of steps backwards and entered the web of shelves, seeking a certain section. It was even quieter inside, like he entered a bubble inside the deep sea.

It was between _Romeo And Juliet_ and _Troilus And Cressida,_ and Dean thought Shakespeare must’ve loved the _name-and-name_ pattern of titles. He pulled the book out, careful not to injure the delicate pages. He walked back to the table, placing the book on it, tucking the note gingerly inside, and walking away.

Even if the librarian would put the book back in its place, Dean thought, if there was any place Cas would look in – it was there.

He left.

 

* * *

 

Castiel was more a man of winter than a summer fond, and on these last days of cold and rainy spring he preferred walking on foot than taking the bus.

It wasn’t his regular course at Thursday afternoons. Usually, he’d only have to leave the school building for one moment to enter the community center. Today, he didn’t show up at work. Maybe he felt something was going wrong while he wasn’t looking, slipping out of his hands when he turned his back – but something made him unwell, stomach-clenched and head-aching, and he stayed home.

He couldn’t pass over the library, though, he convinced himself. He knew Dean might not be there, but the chance was worth a try. And except that – there was no shame in going to a library solely for its literature.

The warmth of the room was comforting as always when he entered it. The scent, stronger with every pad of Cas’ toes down the stairs, was a unique old-books-and-old-people he was fond of. His trip down the staircase ended with a friendly smile to the young librarian, who was reading out of her computer with her ankles on the table. The place was desolated as always, the hour late for the students who’d long gone home and earlier than the routine story hour.

Deserted. Perfect.

He reached the end of the room, his eyes washing over the space to his right. Dean wasn’t there, as expected. He was about to turn around, pick a shelf and start browsing some books, when his eye caught a book that was placed on the table. It wasn’t out of rationality, but didn’t utterly lack oddity as well; for sure, the momentary owner of the book has left the library already. Cas’ feet stepped forward, curiouser than his mind admitted to be, and he peeked at the name of the book.

His lips pursed, holding the air inside his lungs.

_Shakespeare’s sonnets._

His fingers reached for the book, tracing the ends of its shape. With the tips of his finger he flipped the cover open, expecting black letters announcing the name of the book again. Instead, to his befuddled eyes, lay a white page folded in half inside the book.

Did someone forget it in there? His fingers caught the paper and opened it, and his eyes jumped to the top of the page written in black ink. The first word was short.

_Cas._

He gulped, his throat clenching, and his knees folded and forced him to sit down. The paper fell onto the table and Cas’ hand covered his face, pressing against it as if he were trying to calm himself by squishing his nose.

His eyes opened. His fingers reached for the paper again. He took a breath.

A letter. He hated letters. Letters meant goodbyes.

_Cas,_

_I don’t really know how to do this. They… they don’t teach you nowhere how to lose a friend._

_As a start, I owe you an apology. I won’t arrive our meetings anymore. If you wish, after reading this letter, you won’t hear from me again._

_I hope I don’t hurt you. See, the reason I’m leaving has nothing to actually do with you, and I must apologize for my rude – for the least – behavior._

_Now, you deserve an explanation._

The page was clean from scribbles and mistaken words, and he figured Dean had made many drafts prior to this final version. Nonetheless, the following part clearly expressed a struggle for words.

_~~I am-~~ _

_For the last couple of months, I…_

_~~I think--~~ _

_Cas, I-I’m in love with you. I tried to ignore it at first, but I can’t be around you lately without-_

_I couldn’t tell you; it wouldn’t be fair toward any of us. I couldn’t put you in that position to try to explain yourself, try not to offend me. And the thought of the look in your eyes if I told you…_

_I couldn’t stay, either, because I can’t- Cas, I can’t stand another day like this. Leaving is the only option that allows me to move on._

_Don’t find me. I don’t want you to feel obliged to say anything._

There was a break at that point, and Dean’s handwriting stabilized. The next part wasn’t as hard for him to write, Cas could tell. He could almost feel Dean’s dry smile inside the next words.

_I wanted to tell you you’ll find someone, better than me – that’s what they say, don’t they? But you don’t need a man or a woman to be out of the ordinary, Cas. They lie to you when they say love is everything._

Here was another pause. It wasn’t showing in the text, but he could tell. He knew exactly where Dean paused to think, and in which points he almost threw the letter away.

_You are the brightest soul I’ve seen, and no one can make you better than you are._

_So, I wish you the best._

Cas’ fingers were trembling, and he dropped the letter onto the table. There wasn’t anything else, except for one word.

_Dean._

He gulped, speechless. His lips were too dry.

They made a horrible mistake. They both made a huge, horrible mistake.

 

* * *

 

Five in the afternoon.

That’s what the clock said. Dean hasn’t noticed the time as he went past it only minutes ago, though, sinking quickly into one of the sections and then dawdling choosing a book to read. He had taken a few off the shelf, examining their covers with unlit eyes – this was one of the days that required an out of the ordinary story, something that would really get him caught up, but he knew that it was a long shot when he tried to find one.

At last, he settled for an unexceptional-looking cover, a tenderly clouded sky as the background of a hot-air balloon. Boring, but at least not a common _Harry Potter_ or a disgustingly straight _Fifty Shades Of Gray._

Customarily, he turned the pages one by one, tarrying before he reached the beginning of the story, desperately trying to delay the loss of his interest in the light stack of pages.

He passed his fingers along the paper, enjoying its texture.

 _First published in 1997. Britain._ The dedication was to Annalena _._ Odd name, he thought. The next page held the exposition.

_The beginning is simple to mark. We were in sunlight under a turkey oak, partly protected from a strong, gusty wind. I was kneeling on the grass with a corkscrew in my hand, and Clarissa was passing me the bottle – a 1987 Daumas Gassac. This was the moment, this was the pinprick on the time map: I was stretching out my hand, and as the cool neck and the black foil touched my palm, we heard a man’s shout._

“Hey, Dean?”

Dean’s head shot up, startled – as he was completely engaged in the storyline, and the book slipped from his hands to the floor.

At the front of the library, Andy was pacing toward him. Dean looked at him expectantly, picking the book up and rolling the sleeves of his buttoned shirt in the mild heat of a July’s poorly working air conditioner.

“There’s a man looking for you,” Andy said when he arrived the section Dean was reading-while-standing in. His thumb rose up and pointed backwards. Dean’s eyebrows furrowed; Sam would call if something was wrong…

“Tall, handsome, quirky…” Andy continued, watching Dean’s face for signs of recognition. “Could be a stalker, could be your boyfriend…” His voice faded.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Dean answered instinctively, but a worn out memory popped into his mind. A face, appearing just as always when the matter of his love life was brought up. But as Cas’ face hovered in his mind, he heard Andy’s words again.

_Tall, handsome… quirky._

“He’s my friend,” Dean’s lips blurted as his mind tried to shut off the glint in his eyes. Andy’s hand lifted, pointing at the entrance again.

“He’s right there,” he said awkwardly, not sure what to do. Dean nodded, his feet already leading him that way as if from his sleep.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, patting Andy’s shoulder sluggishly as he went past him, not hesitating for a moment while his feet carried him steadily toward the direction of Andy’s pointing.

The walk for the front of the room wasn’t anything like that of Cas’ library. It took less than a few steps, and then, without any preparation, he was standing by the front door, facing a man he was nothing but a disappointment to. His feet halted in place, his motions freezing.

A quick calculation told Dean he’s spent a couple of full moons away from that face. He wanted to say something good, something that wouldn’t make him sound like one big asshole, or a coward.

Nothing came to mind.

It wasn’t more than a tense moment before Cas’ lips parted.

“They lie to you about love, huh?” he asked, and the deadpan of his expression broke into a crooked smile. Dean’s mouth opened, and when he couldn’t think of an answer, closed again.

“I tend to disagree,” Cas went on, his voice a quiet fluency like a flowing river within a flourish forest.

“Love can give you strength.”

“Of course,” Dean’s mouth blurted on its own, his voice a strengthening mumble. “What I meant is that your happiness doesn’t have to depend on a romantic relationship…” His voice faded and he looked at Cas, examining his expression. Cas’ lips curved up slightly, his eyes dropping to his hands. His fingers were fiddling with nothing, an intended distraction for his mind.

“What you wrote about me,” he said quietly, not looking up. “That was – really beautiful.”

Dean’s lips parted with surprise.

“I’m better with writing than a face-to-face talk,” he mumbled, his voice holding the same softness as Cas’.

“But, Cas, I owe you an apology-“

“I knew,” Cas cut him off. “I knew you were in love with me. Realized it right after our first December.” He went on without hesitation, as if he were talking about his new shoes and not about a man being madly in love with him.

“I didn’t say anything, though, because what was the point of breaking your heart? I still wanted to see you… After your accident, I thought things may be different for you, but it was like the first time all over again… Until-“ he paused abruptly, his lips pursing.

“Until?” Dean urged mutedly.

“Until I started to… to feel it too. Shortly before you left; I…” he tailed off, watching his restless fingers deliberately, as if his thoughts were written on them.

“It wasn’t the same as before.” His eyes rose and Dean met his stare. It was genuine, somewhat vulnerable, as if the exposure to Cas’ emotions gave Dean some kind of power over him.

Cas’ eyes were still fixed on the floor, giving Dean the opportunity to study his face, comprehend his sheepish expression. Dean’s eyes wouldn’t leave his face, trying to sort out his puzzled mind. He didn’t understand how any of what Cas had just said to him made sense, but if Cas were really being genuine… he couldn’t ignore the sparkle of hope that kicked in his stomach anymore.

“Cool,” he managed to blurt out eventually, his voice faint, watching Cas’ fingers tangle aimlessly around one another.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Cas murmured wistfully. “I wasn’t sure-“

“That I still feel the same?” Dean snorted softly, catching on his train of thoughts. “I wish.”

He wasn’t sure what to do next. Both their eyes were on the ground, examining the same blurred out stain on the carpeted floor. Was a kiss appropriate? Would it be alright to slide his fingers in between Cas’? His hand rose, settling gently against Cas’ cheek, the base of his palm under Cas’ chin. Cas’ eyelids dropped, and with the slightest motion he leaned his face into Dean’s palm.

It was a perfect moment of warm, intimate silence, until Cas’ lips parted and he let out a sigh.

“I still wonder about your mystery sometimes,” he murmured, eyes still closed. His lips were a straight line but Dean could see a mild beam within his features, his eyes rambling along Cas’ face and absorbing every emotion that crossed it.

“The thing about your parents dying, and what you and your uncle were doing back then.”

“Oh, that,” Dean recalled with a glint in his eye, and his hand dropped to grab Cas’. “It took some time to put the pieces together, but I figured it out,” he admitted. It did end up being a sad story, more horrific than Dean would imagine, but he never regretted asking Cas about it in the library that other day. He was right; the new him, just as much as the old one, did prefer knowing the truth.

Cas opened his eyes leisurely and let Dean pull him by the hand toward the armchairs at the far end of the room. Curiosity lit inside him again and he followed Dean expectantly,  enjoying the warmth of Dean’s long fingers around his.

“Sit down, I’ll tell you a story.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Book quote from the first page of Enduring Love by Ian McEwan.  
> The whole thing with Shakespeare is true, by the way. He was queer af just like all of us ╰(•̀ 3 •́)━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ


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